A Marriage of Convenience
by queenofowls
Summary: After the war, Sylvain, now the Margrave of Gautier, offers to marry Ingrid to save House Galatea from ruin. It provides them both something they want-for Ingrid, financial stability, for Sylvain, a marked decrease in unwanted advances. They should be content, but six months later, Sylvain finds himself wanting more. Perhaps he would have it by now... if not for That Night.


**A MASSIVE thank you to Ao3 user [golden_whisky] who volunteered to edit out my annoying typos and made sure it flowed more naturally. Long live the editor beta-readers being the heroes we need!**

* * *

_"Just give it to her, Sylvain. A woman cannot resist such things. I would know."_

Slumped behind his desk in the lavish work office at Gautier Estate, Sylvain eyes the silver box on the edge of the table with a doubtful stare.

A boon from Lorenz, to help with a problem he's... encountered recently. He grimaces. Lorenz is not one he goes to often when he has questions on the subject of love. In fact, he never goes to _anyone _when it comes to the subject of love in general, but considering it's been days since Ingrid's even looked in his direction... He can't help but worry.

Of course, he intends on taking his advice, however suspect, because-as Lorenz has mentioned-some things need the touch of someone less... _'clueless,' _as he called him.

Him! As if he didn't know women back to front, top to bottom. There is no reason he should have to go to him at all. Their approaches to romance are, for one thing, _completely_different.

Lorenz's view has always been over the top and extravagant in a way that Sylvain could only appreciate outwardly but is less keen to imitate... Every comedian has their own trick up their sleeves, and every charmer... hm. Could he even _call _Lorenz a charmer? He's rarely-okay, never-seen the man chat up another living, breathing person successfully. The whole chivalry thing... there's no way he could be serious about it.

_Right?_

But now, Lorenz's words make Sylvain grimace inwardly. The more he thinks on it, the less he wishes he'd gone to him for help. Why _did _he reach out to that violet haired prune anyway?

...Hm. Actually, it's an easy question to answer. Regardless of his strikeouts, Lorenz has always carried an air of outward confidence that makes Sylvain feel comfortable enough to approach him when he deems necessary— like now, on the six month anniversary of his and Ingrid's wedding of convenience, the week after he'd had a fight with her.

Before the fateful argument, he'd asked her what she'd wanted, but she'd only responded with a back stiffened with surprise, a single lifted eyebrow and a small shrug before giving him the greatest gift of all... a small, wry, if surprisingly genuine laugh.

Laughter. Directed towards _him,_ of all people.

Such a hesitant, fleeting thing that passed through her lips and pierced him squarely in the chest. She'd only begun to do so mere weeks ago, but he'd found it so pleasant that it sent warmth to his fingertips just thinking about it. Ingrid... he's known her for such a long time, but she was much more prone to giving him verbal scoldings than smiles.

The first time he'd heard the sound, he'd kissed her so deeply that when she gripped the fabric of his shirt to pull him closer, she left small, red pinch marks behind.

They don't kiss often. Lately, there have been moments where it feels right and they do, but the kisses often feel more like challenges than touches of affection. Challenges to see whose heart would collapse first in this strange marriage pretend game they play. Kisses don't scare him. What scares him is the analysis that follows, where he dwells on the feeling of her mouth against hers and wonders if he's moved her heart any. In the case of _that_ particular kiss, Sylvain is certain that he did, because even though she'd gotten angry at him afterward, her words... her gaze...

_"You promised you wouldn't do things like that without warning me." Her green eyes flickered away from his face. "You know I'm not as experienced as you."_

He muses on that for a moment as he holds the box closely and wonders if going to Lorenz had been a mistake, after all.

Sylvain sighs aloud and opens it, peeking at its pale green silken contents. Lingerie to apologize when they haven't even consummated the relationship? Why is Lorenz so certain that this is an acceptable apology gift in such a circumstance? It's pretty but...

_This is stupid._

_This is very stupid._

Even for him.

He hears a knock at the door of his office and sits up, quickly stowing the box into a drawer. For a moment, he hesitates to answer. He's not really in the mood for guests... but slipping a smile onto his face, he calls out cheerily. "Come on in!"

"A message, Margrave Gautier." Ah, the pretty maid who brings him lunch whenever he works late. What is her name? Varbell? Cynthia? He grasps uselessly for it but instead can only remember the times he's made a pass at her, only to be politely declined.

_'I'll accept it from a pretty girl like you.' _ The idle flirtation comes to him before he can stop it. He rolls it over in his mind, holding out his hand to accept the message instead of saying it. That's the old him, Sylvain reminds himself. "...Thank you," he says slowly. "Who's the lucky sender? I think I can find the time if it's from someone as cute as you."

...Okay, so it's _sort of _the old him.

"No sender. You asked me to inform you when Margravine Gautier arrived home so you could take your supper together."

_Yes, right._ Sylvain is the one who'd sent a message by Wyvern Express asking when she would be home, and while it _does _fill him with mild surprise that she hadn't sent a reply back, perhaps it shouldn't, considering that she'd returned his message torn in two... a surefire way to know that she was still angry at him for _that _night.

Perhaps the heart shape of the envelope had been overkill.

Sylvain tries not to rub his temples in frustration. The maid-_Qielle? Parisia? no... that isn't it either. Did it begin with a letter M?_-clears her throat.

"Trouble, sir? Are you still fighting?"

Sylvain almost jumps, forgetting that she is still in the room. He keeps his voice light.

"Of course not! You know how it is with ladies. You just can't understand them no matter how much you... try." His volume drops, his voice slightly husky. He clears his throat, tries to maintain his cheer. "Ingrid and I are going to be fine."

She looks at him, tilting her head. "My lord, if you don't mind my input..." Input. It seems like that's all people want to give him these days. He sighs, motioning for her to continue. "Maybe you could try being more... sincere?"

Sincere? His eyebrows draw together.

"What do you mean?" He makes the exclamation in genuine astonishment. There's a note of protest in his voice. "I'm the very picture of sincerity, Melody!"

A blank, deadpan stare is her only reply.

"Melanie. If you say so, sir." _Ah, right. Melanie. _She departs before he can think to change his reply into something more like the truth.

Sylvain runs a hand through his hair.

Girls, he's always thought, are easy. All you have to do is say the right thing at the right time. Smile and wink a little, puff out your chest, swing your sword, drop the name—_'it's Gautier. You might've heard of me.'—_and boom. They would be in your lap before the sun set. But Ingrid...

He's known her his whole life and yet, it feels like he doesn't understand her at all. The lines that would have a girl scrambling for a look at him when he passed through the halls of the Officer's Academy years before only serve to make her roll her eyes at him now.

The gifts he would give her from the other nobles adter diplomatic meetings only seem to bring vague smiles of appreciation-nothing near as satisfying the light in her eyes when they sit for a dinner of exotic meats he had imported from Almyra.

And compliments! He can never figure out when one will make her groan in annoyance or when, _so _much more rarely, her eyes would be cast downward and away, long blond lashes casting shadows on flushed cheeks. Whenever he tells her that he likes the way her skirt flirts with her thighs, he always gets the former... but there was that one, singular instance... when she was training with lances...

_"Right side's looking good, Ingrid." _

_She'd snorted at first. "Why? Because from that angle, my form is nice? Is that what you wanted to say?"_

_"No," he remembers replying, because actually, he really meant it. "Not at all. But I've been watching you long enough to notice a change. Your reaction time when attacks come from the left has always been much faster than your right. Did you think I've looked at girls my whole life to not notice you, too?" He'd shrugged, bending both elbows to rest his head on his hands. He watched as she jabbed the bottom of her spear into the ground. "I admit, you have been looking cooler than usual lately, though."_

_"Cooler, huh?" She'd given him a distracted smile as she re-adjusted the straw mannequin. "Well... thanks. That compliment seems much more like you. I admit, though..." And then she did it. Made that face, her cheeks colored with, if it were any other person, he would've said shyness. "I didn't know you paid me so much attention. Do me a favor and keep your eyes to yourself from now on, would you?"_

..._That's_ the kind of thing that makes her face transform in such a significant way.

And he hadn't even been trying.

Sylvain wonders if he's just out of practice and stands. He should meet her for dinner.

He takes a step towards the door, then stops short. Perhaps he should bring the box, too. Just in case. It's still an anniversary of sorts, after all.

A maid he passes in the hall indicates that Ingrid is in their bedroom, changing out of her travel clothes. He reaches for the door handle then thinks again, knocking lightly as he speaks aloud to let her know who it is.

"Hey, Ingrid, welcome back. Are you hungry?" _Normalcy._ Maybe he can go with pretending things are back to normal? Maybe she'll play along and yank open the door. The normal Ingrid would scold him, tweak his nose and tell him that he's an idiot for what he di... The thought trails off as he realizes that he doesn't hear her answer.

"..." There's only silence on the other side of the door, instead. Then... "Yes. I am hungry, Sylvain. But you don't have to eat with me, you know." Her voice is so unusually subdued that he can only imagine her expression. "In fact, don't come. Celebrating six months of marriage is pointless when we both know that the only reason we joined houses was to save my family from financial ruin. I find it a waste, don't you?"

"Ingrid."

"Apparently so, or—"

"**Ingrid**." His voice comes out more sharply than he intends for it, but it stops her from saying something he is sure she would regret—or at the very least, he _hopes _that she would regret. Only moments ago he was thinking of the way she laughed with him but... it occurs to him that she has only just begun to do so after six months. Ingrid is still distant, still afraid to trust him. "I..."

Neither of them speak. He rests his forehead against the wood of the door.

He wants to speak to her, face to face.

But... he is exhausted from all of the times that she pushes him away. She refuses to believe that he's sincere-and he gets why, but... he always feels like she is just too far away for him to ever breach the barrier between them.

They've spent a lifetime side by side, and yet... he feels as though they're not moving forward. As if, since they married, they've only moved further apart.

All he wants to do is to be someone she trusts and relies on. To be loved by her in exchange. It would be so much easier to give in, to give up, to claim it was too difficult to make it work, and find another bed to lie in because in truth, Sylvain knows there is always another woman who would welcome him gladly in her arms, but... he finds, for the first time in his life, that no one else will do. The longer he wakes up beside her, the more he craves to be close enough that she would want to give herself to him, rather than just... he cringes at the thought. _Rather than just make crest babies._

She offered once, but the reluctant, automatic way she peeled her wedding dress from her shoulders made his stomach twist in a way he could not find pleasant if he tried. He'd zipped it back up and laughed.

_"Don't tell me, now that you've got me, all of a sudden you want my crest babies, too." Ingrid had huffed, blushed, and protested about duty, but he wouldn't budge. Not when her eyes looked so empty at the thought. "There's no rush, Ingrid. Just rest easy and let me clean up your mess for once without any reward." He'd feigned a grin. "Or House Galatea's mess, anyway."_

_She had only shaken her head at him, but he cannot forget the relief he saw in her eyes as she changed into a nightgown that night and each night that followed. He cannot forget her quiet words as, beneath the sheets, her hand crept towards, grazed against, then wrapped around his._

_"Thank you, Sylvain."_

However true it is that they clash constantly, however common his inward complaints that Ingrid isn't the easiest person to love, he is equally convinced by her constant exasperation with him that he is no easier to fall in love with from her perspective. For her to thank him for something so small... it's all he can do, these small attempts to make her feel more comfortable in the hope that maybe... well.

Maybe they could one day have a marriage that is more than just _comfortable_.

Ingrid's voice on the other side of the door breaks his thoughts. She sounds clumsy and unsure, fumbling over the words.

"Sylvain, maybe we should just..."

He's taken too long to reply, but he interrupts her before she can say it. The easy solution.

"I don't want to." He grips the doorknob tightly in his hand, but he doesn't turn it. Not unless... not unless she'll let him in. "Ingrid... I don't want to give up on us."

Letting go of the handle, Sylvain rubs the back of his neck. Maybe pretending _it _never happened is the wrong way to go. Maybe he should face the situation head on. Bizarre as it sounds, It feels strange for him to initiate an apology.

For as long as he can remember, she has complained about cleaning up after his mistakes. True, he's always playfully dismissed her complaints with teasing that only stoked her into exasperated anger, if only because he knew that she could never _really_ hate him. It was the status quo of their long friendship, and even now, in their marriage, she is the one who comes to him to make peace while he has never had to lift a finger. He winces.

She's always complained of him taking her for granted, too.

"Ingrid, I... I've been meaning to tell you that... I'm sorry. I should never have tried to make you jealous that night."

"Jealous? You... were trying to make me jealous?" From the other side of the door, she sounds genuinely shocked. "I thought that you liked... I-I mean, I thought that... about me, you weren't really..." She stops, her voice turning hard. "_ No_, Sylvain. I've watched too many people fall for your games. I'm... I'm not going to let myself be one of them. I..." Ingrid speaks so softly that Sylvain strains to hear her. "I know better than that."

"Ingrid, please, listen to me. I know I was being stupid but, come on. It's not like you can't trust me." Sylvain swallows hard. _One step forward, three steps back._

She doesn't answer him. Maybe she shouldn't.

"I trust you, Sylvain. I know that you'll protect me if I'm in danger, and even now, you're... trapped in a loveless marriage with someone like me, just because we barely had any money to keep going."

Sylvain rests his forehead against the door. _Trapped? Is that how she feels?_

Her list hurts, in a strange way. She trusts him to protect her body, her finances, but when it comes to weightier matters, like her heart... Sylvain flinches at the implication.

"Ingrid, I'm not lying to you, I swear. I really _was _trying to make you jealous because..." He forces the words out. "Because _I _was jealous. That night, when I saw the way you were talking to Felix so comfortably, even when you scolded him, I felt..." He trails off. "When I saw the way he touched your hair, it was just a reminder that you two could've been a family. And I'm filling in shoes that I'll never be able to..." Sylvain trails off bitterly. "No, I'm sorry, that doesn't matter. I shouldn't try to blame you in my own apology. I should never have flirted with someone else, and I especially shouldn't have done it in front of you with the intention of hurting you." He takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly, quietly. "We all share the same past, but sometimes it feels like since the war ended, you've gotten so much... freer. It feels like you've opened up little by little to everyone but me and I... I _hate _it, Ingrid." He hates to say it out loud. It all just sounds so _petty _but he can't avoid the sour truth biting his cheeks with acidic honesty. Not if it means she'll laugh with him again. "I know. I'm stupid so... please. Give me a chance to make it up to you. I don't want to split up. Not now."

Not when he's just begun to make her laugh.

Ingrid is silent for a long moment. Then, she pulls open the door decisively. Sylvain almost falls through the doorway, but he manages to stop himself with a hand against the door frame, the box with the anniversary gift tucked tightly under his arm. She doesn't seem to notice.

"Why are you like this?"

He stares at her in surprise. Her eyes are piercing as she stands in their bedroom doorway, the long, teal shift she wears gathered at her feet. Little embroidered scales trail across her shoulders, the sleeves sheer. She looks like she's wearing the sea, gauze gathered around her wrists.

"Like... what?"

Ingrid averts her gaze, her fists clenched. "We both went into this relationship with a goal, Sylvain. You always act like you don't think things through, but you and I both know that's not true." She shakes her head and leans her shoulder against the opposite door frame. "You did this to save House Galatea, and I understood that clearly. I agreed. But..." Ingrid hugs herself. "We don't need _love_ for this kind of marriage, do we? So why do you do it, then? Look at me when you think I don't see... Tell me that you wanted to make me jealous... Kiss me like you care about me, when I know that the truth is..." She trails off, her lips quivering. Alarm floods through him as he grips both of her forearms.

"Ingrid, stop talking like that! I do care about you! I mean," Sylvain stares at her earnestly, the corner of his mouth quirking upwards into a heart-breaking smile. "Who else can I go to if I want to know that everything will be alright because you'll make it alright?" He pulls her closer, leans his forehead against her shoulder. "I'm selfish for making you clean up my messes, I know. I'm a full-on disaster. But I offered to marry you because I thought..."

"You thought because it was me, it was okay to settle. Look, I know and it doesn't bother me that-" He straightens, shaking his head before she can finish the sentence.

_"No_, Ingrid. It's because I knew that no matter what, if there was one woman who always saw me for who I am, who always kept me on the right path, it's you. And when I imagined a future with you... it didn't feel like settling at all." He lets go of her arms, the truth of his words surprising him. He's not alone in his surprise.

Ingrid bites her lip for a moment, then tucks her hair idly behind her ear. "I really don't understand you, you know." She wipes idly at her eyes, sniffling quickly as though he won't notice. "Sometimes it feels like... we're going in circles."

"I know, yeah. I'm sorry."

"What do you want from me, then?"

"I want you to trust that I won't hurt you." He holds up a hand frantically. "I know that's stupid of me to ask, considering I just tried to make you jealous, but... I promise not to do things like that anymore. I know it's still kind of weird between us and I'm still trying to get this whole... monogamy thing right but..." He trails off. "Can we just try that?"

Ingrid nods once, slowly. Then again, with more certainty. "Yeah. I... I can." She looks up and down at his formal clothes. "You said you were ready for dinner."

"I lied." He clears his throat, the corners of his mouth lifting, then dropping altogether. "I was nervous that you wouldn't want to eat with me."

"I see." Ingrid hesitates, then turns to take a seat by their bedroom's fireplace, leaving the door open for him to follow. Neither of them speak as Ingrid's hands nervously find their way into her hair, fingers braiding and unbraiding the same section over and over, her gaze on her lap. Sylvain shuts the door behind them. He sits in the space beside her, taking the slightly crumpled gift box from beneath his arm and placing it in his lap. Tentatively, Sylvain reaches out, placing his hand lightly on her thigh. The touch is not at all sensual, but he feels a curious quiver slip through her. Sylvain murmurs the words he wants to say in earnest.

"Ingrid... I don't want a divorce." He repeats his earlier sentiment quietly. She drags her eyes upwards to meet his, her voice a bare whisper.

"You said that already."

"I meant it." He watches another ghost shiver go through her and it boosts his confidence, making him wonder if he isn't the only one who doesn't understand his partner. Ingrid's eyes wander the room and fall on the silver box in his lap.

"Is that... for me?"

"Well..." Sylvain's hesitation is enough for her. She starts to pulls the lid off of box before he has time to protest, take it from her, stop her from seeing what's inside. "Wait, uh..." She looks at him suspiciously, causing him to inwardly sigh. Granted, it does look suspicious... "Never mind. Go ahead." She opens the box and freezes. _Oh, well. May as well commit._ Sylvain shifts closer and tries to make light of the situation. He lifts a creamy green silk-and-lace garter belt from inside, holding the material against her wrist. "I think it matches your skin tone, don't you?"

Sylvain keeps his voice light. Airy. Playful.

It does match her skin quite well, actually. Her eyes, too.

...Curse Lorenz.

A suspicious thought begins to form as he wonders _how in the world_ Lorenz could match lingerie to someone's skin tone just by looking at them. He's not even sure _he _could do that.

_Ugh._

"Sylvain, you-!" His comments don't stop Ingrid from snatching the box and stuffing the lingerie in his hand back into it with its other delicate, lacy friends. The flustered expression leaves Sylvain with the single, lasting impression that he is certain will do their relationship much good: the knowledge that Lorenz is, indeed, an idiot.

The blush creeps down her neck and disappears beneath the shift. He allows his eyes to dip a little lower, noting the color with a quiet, shaky intake of breath. _Focus, Sylvain._

"Well, it's not for now. But in the future, I hope that you can trust me enough to be this close, too." He's not sure if it's the right thing to say but... he has to learn sooner or later.

Ingrid bites her lip. To his surprise, she looks like she is, in fact, considering it. He opens his mouth to comment, but before he can, Ingrid stands abruptly, looking anywhere but directly at him.

"I'm... I'm going to eat. Don't forget to change."

And with that, she disappears through the door, slamming it shut behind her.

Sylvain lets out a sigh. _What a disaster._

He starts to change his clothes... but it isn't until after the echoes of her footsteps are gone that he finally notices that the silver box has disappeared with her.

A hopeful grin creeps up his face, impossible to smother.

_Maybe Lorenz isn't such an idiot, after all._

* * *

**Now that this idea is out of my head... back to my normal Bydue offerings.**

**Every review is a large bullion to the royal 'Respect the Women of Fódlan' fund on behalf of Margrave Sylvain Gautier as well as an _extra_ large bullion to the '****National Association for the Advancement of People of Duscur' (NAAPD) on behalf of Margravine Ingrid Gautier****!**


End file.
